One realized indeed then where the differences lay; the tender curves about Anna’s mouth transformed into hard sharp lines in Annabel’s, the eyes of one, truthful and frank, the other’s more beautiful but with less expression—windows lit with dazzling light, but through which one saw—nothing. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. He never felt any need to explain himself. After all, this could never be the black sheep. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. You cannot refuse me this. To be with you is the best moral tonic I know.
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